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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24728434">Killing Sparrows</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:22:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,232</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24728434</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gertrude raises Jon to be the Archivist. Nothing works out.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Gerard Keay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>135</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Killing Sparrows</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote this a little under a year ago before most of the key plot developments of Season 4, hence outdated theories and some inconsistencies.</p>
<p><i>Carry with thee this tale.<br/>A hunter went killing sparrows one cold day, and his eyes gave forth tears as he went.<br/>Said one bird to another, “Behold, this man weeps.”<br/>Said the other, “Turn thine eyes from his tears. Watch his hands.”</i><br/>--The Ringed Castle, by Dorothy Dunnett</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    Jonathan Sims is nine years old when he goes to the special school in London. The woman from the Institute knocks on his door one bright February morning; too early for polite society to venture out, when everything in the garden is crystallized and the sun is a cold light on the eastern horizon. </p>
<p>    His grandmother is up making tea, because his grandmother believes in old-fashioned things like <em>going to bed on time</em>, which Jon can never quite manage to make himself do. He’s always too tempted by the night-light and the unread books on his bedside table. </p>
<p>    The door opens. </p>
<p>    “Hello,” says the woman who is inconveniently good at her job. “My name is Gertrude Robinson, and I’m from the Magnus Institute of Research in London. May I come in?” </p>
<p>    And because-- although Jon will grow to be blunt and antisocial-- his grandmother believes in old-fashioned things like <em>being polite to strangers, </em>she smiles and lets Gertrude Robinson into her family. </p>
<p>    Gertrude peruses the pictures on the walls as though looking for something that she does not find. Her plaid skirt is long and functional, and her glasses are looped around her neck on a practical lanyard. She proffers an empty smile to the porcelain-filled room. “As I said, I’m here on behalf of the Magnus Institute London. We always keep an eye out for talented youth-- writers and readers, you understand, are the backbone of what we do-- and this is the inaugural year of a special academic program rooted in hands-on research and data organization. I have a friend in the management over at Guardia Primary-- you might know her, Lucy Olivier? No? At any rate, she told me that your Jon is quite the voracious little reader, and that his creative writing is exceptional. I wanted to offer him a place in this year’s class of students.” </p>
<p>    For the first time, Gertrude Robinson turns and looks at him. He feels as if the whole world is watching. “Do you have a lot of books?” he asks. </p>
<p>    “Jon,” says Gertrude, her eyes as cold as her glasses, “we have the biggest independant library in the city of London.” She turns to Grandmother. “This is my card. You may call me within the next week if you wish to reserve a place for him. Thank you very much for your time.”</p>
<p>    She leaves. </p>
<p>    So, of course, does Jon. Despite his grandmother’s protestations, despite the fact that it means leaving the little house in the middle of nowhere in which he’s lived all his life, and despite that his parents always wanted him to become an electrical engineer. It takes a week of convincing his grandmother, but convince her he does. And within a week, they’ve signed the requisite papers at Guardia, bundled him up in all his woolies, and posted him off on a train to London like a prize parcel. </p>
<p>    London is not a nice city. He’s been there once before, when he was very small, on a day trip with his class. They went to the Globe and the London Eye and then on the train back they ate Indian food that all his classmates said was too spicy. Jon had grabbed the extra packets of chili oil at the door, and heaped it on like frosting. This was a serious marker of power among six-year-olds, and he had spent the whole train ride feeling extremely important. </p>
<p>    He didn’t feel important now. He feel scared and very, very alone. </p>
<p>    According to his travel instructions, he is to be met at King’s Cross by one of Gertrude’s assistants, a man named Michael Shelley. Michael Shelley is very easy to find, because he is nearly a foot taller than everyone else at the station, and also he is holding a sign embossed “JOHNATHAN SIMMES” He is a very young man, with a swoop of blond hair and pale grey eyes flitting nervously into all the corners, and he is wrapped in so many scarves it looks like he is drowning in wool. Jon immediately decides he does not like Michael Shelley. </p>
<p>    “Hello,” Michael says breezily, reaching out a long, bemittened arm to take Jon’s duffel bag. “I’m Michael Shelley.”</p>
<p>    “Yes,” says Jon. “I know.”</p>
<p>    “And you must be Jonathan Sims! I’m so glad to meet you.”</p>
<p>    “Yes,” says Jon again, “and it’s spelled J-O-N and S-I-M-S.”</p>
<p>    Michael glances nervously at the sign. “Oh! I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m dyslexic. Sometimes the words just get all twisted around like squiggles, ha ha ha!” </p>
<p>    His laugh is breathy and staccato. Jon thinks he sounds dumb. </p>
<p>    Michael tries to get him to talk all the way to the Magnus Institute, as they careen through Soho in a ratty blue jeep that looks older than the two of them put together. Jon doesn't say a word. He continues to not say a word until they pull up in front of a tall brick building on the Thames. Over the door, in large bronze letters, is engraved “THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE FOR PARANORMAL RESEARCH,” and under that Jon can just make out the words “Vigilo, Audio, Opperior.” He feels a frisson of excitement, and turns to Michael. “How long have you been working here?” </p>
<p>“Oh, not long, not long. I only graduated from Catz two years ago. Sociology and higher mathematics,” he says proudly, as if either of those have any bearing on researching the paranormal. Still-</p>
<p>“Cats? Is there a school for cats?” </p>
<p>“Ha ha ha, a school for cats! No, it's a college at Oxford. St. Catherine's.”</p>
<p>“You went to Oxford?” asks Jon, unable to keep a hint of awe from his voice. </p>
<p>“Oh, yes. There are quite a few of us here.There's a bit of a pipeline, to be honest.</p>
<p>Bernice from Records went to Balliol, I think, quite a few years before me, and I’m pretty sure Louis and Regina in Artefacts are both from Trinity. And I know Elias over in Accounts graduated from Christchurch maybe four years ago. Explains a lot,” he says, a darker timbre to his voice. </p>
<p>Jon doesn't know much about uni. “Do you all hate each other or something? Because you went to different colleges?”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, we all just hate the Cambridge grads. They're absolutely insufferable. Half of them went through ASNaC and think that means they know all about magic runes.” </p>
<p>This means nothing to Jon, but sounds exciting. “Are there actual real magic runes?” </p>
<p>“Gosh, I don't know,” says Michael, quickly, and ushers Jon inside before he can ask any more questions.</p>
<p>     The Magnus Institute is big, bigger than on the outside, bigger than any building Jon has been in before. It’s old brick, and art lines the walls of the wide hallways: to the right of the door, an oil-painted smiling man sits at a spartan desk, a model ship on the bookshelf behind him. On the left hangs a large tapestry of interlocking eye motifs. Jon shivers to look at it, and turns his focus to the man instead. He’s done his reading on the Institute: “Is that Jonah Magnus?” he asks.</p>
<p>    “No,” Michael says, his riding boots clicking on the hardwood floor, “there aren’t any surviving paintings of Jonah. That’s Mordechai Lukas-- the two of them were great friends. The Lukas family still funds our research, actually. Unfortunately.”</p>
<p>    “Huh?” says Jon, skipping ahead to look at a black-and-white photo of a city labelled <em>Alexandria, 1932. </em>“Why unfortunately?”</p>
<p>    “Nothing.” Michael is a bad liar. “I don’t know. They creep me out a bit, to be honest.”</p>
<p>    “What’s wrong with them?”</p>
<p>    “I don’t know,” says Michael, “they’re just not very friendly. They have some big fancy mansion just outside Douglas and they never come out except for business and the annual gala. Come on, I’ll take you to Gertrude.”</p>
<p>    Jon follows him through more winding corridors than seem to fit into the building, and finally emerges in a small waiting room somewhere in the basement. And there Michael leaves him. </p>
<p>    He waits. </p>
<p>    And waits. </p>
<p>    The door marked “Gertrude Robinson, Head Archivist” does not open. He tries knocking to no avail. </p>
<p>    Across from him there is a plain unmarked door. Glancing around, he sees no one, so stands up quietly and slips across the room. The doorknob turns when he twists it, and he peers inside. There’s a light switch, which he flips, and then he steps in and closes the door quietly behind him. </p>
<p>    The room inside is far bigger than he expected, lit only by a few flickering fluorescent bulbs hanging from wires. Metal shelving runs along the walls, and on every single one sit cardboard boxes. Jon pads over to the nearest one, labeled in a scratchy handwriting he recognizes as Michael’s: “December 1992.” He takes off the cardboard lid. Inside are files upon files. Pulling one of them out and opening it, he reads: “Statement of Nolwenn Le Marollec. Incident occurred in Lorient, Brittany, April 1986. Statement given 27th May, 1988.”</p>
<p>    It takes him a second to realize that he’s reading aloud. </p>
<p>    He looks at the date on the box, then back down at the papers in his hand. </p>
<p>    <em>Well, </em>he thinks, <em>that’s sloppy. </em></p>
<p>Since he doesn’t have anything else to do, he sits down on the cold floor beside the door and starts reading the file. It appears to be some kind of a story, but a story quite unlike almost anything he’s read before. </p>
<p>    Almost. </p>
<p>    It’s written in a flowing, elegant cursive, and has a lot of long words that he doesn’t understand. But he does understand the plot: Nolwenn Le Marollec recounted her experiences growing up in her father’s bookstore on the French coast. Throughout her childhood, a tall man who introduced himself as Jord visited her father to discuss business over tea. She remembered him because unlike most customers he spoke in broken, heavily-accented Breton, not French. She did not know where he was from, and never learned how he knew her father. It was only when her father died, leaving the bookshop to her, that she had a longer conversation with him.</p>
<p>    There was a book he wanted. It was called <em>Le Rouge de Kenholl</em>, and for all Nolwenn could tell it did not exist. There was an old folk song of the same title, about a woman who lost a hundred years of life in one night, but the man who called himself Jord insisted that the book was there in the shop. Bound in red leather, he said, with a flame symbol on the front. She searched the shop as he stood menacingly in the door, but to no avail. He left with a glare, and bid her goodbye in French. </p>
<p>    She found the book later that week, when she finally opened the locked chest beside her father’s desk. Expecting pictures of her mother, she was surprised to find only the sole, artfully-bound copy of <em>Le Rouge de Kenholl</em>. It was beautiful. She could see why Jord had wanted it. There was no story inside, only lines of old Breton parables. But the further she read the odder they got. There was one that stood out to her: <em>a soul burns brightest on a bloody torch. </em>She did not know what it meant, but it frightened her. She left the book open on her father’s desk and went to bed. </p>
<p>    When morning came the entire stock of the store was gone, burned to ashes. The shelves were intact, the floors were cool, and the building undamaged. But on every surface there remained only piles of grey ash. </p>
<p>    <em>Le Rouge de Kenholl </em>was still on her desk, completely unharmed. She closed it hurriedly, the loss of her father’s life’s work ringing hollow in her ears. Then, in a haze, she found Jord’s telephone number and rang him up. </p>
<p>    “Hello?” said a woman’s voice on the other end. “This is the library of Jurgen Leitner, how may I help you?”</p>
<p>    She sold him the book for a surprisingly large amount of money, packed her bags, and set the bookstore on fire before setting off across the channel on a ship. </p>
<p>    By the time Jon finishes reading the statement, he feels much better. The room is chilly, and somehow the hour seems much later than it should be, but he is perfectly warm and wide awake. He flips back through the pages, his eyes eventually settling on the name Jurgen Leitner. He smiles, slightly. So Jon isn’t alone. Somewhere out there, a woman named Nolwenn Le Marollec also lives in fear and hatred of a man named Jurgen Leitner, who wields books like weapons. </p>
<p>    The door next to him opens, and Gertrude Robinson steps in. </p>
<p>    “Ah,” she says, “I see you’ve found the Archives.”</p>
<p>    About a week passes before Jon realizes that he is not at a school. Gertrude gives him everything he wants: access to an amazing library, permission to ignore anyone who tries to talk to him, and as many old statements as he can read. The library holds his attention first, because in retrospect something about that cold, box-filled room down in the Archives scares him, and he can’t quite bring himself to write to his grandmother with the truth.</p>
<p>Eventually, when he’s read all the interesting books in the library, he returns to the case statements. He understands almost all the words now, but hasn’t been able to shake the habit of reading them aloud. When he turns eleven Gertrude gives him a tape recorder for his birthday and tells him he may as well make himself useful. </p>
<p>    It’s easy for him to ignore the increasingly dire news from his grandmother. At the beginning he writes her enthusiastic letters about all the reading he’s doing (he leaves out the statements; somehow he doesn’t think she would want to know about those), and she responds with tacit approval. But as the months go on her letter become shorter, less coherent, and eventually she stops writing at all. He doesn’t write back much, anyway. </p>
<p>    It’s when he’s eleven that he finally tells Gertrude he knows the “Magnus Academic Institute” is a fraud.</p>
<p>    She doesn’t look up from the book she is reading. “Would you rather return to Bournemouth?” she asks. </p>
<p>    He would not. </p>
<p>    His grandmother dies soon after that. Heart troubles, Michael tells him awkwardly, and tries to pat him on the back, but Jon flinches away. He still doesn’t like Michael. </p>
<p>    It’s that year that he starts paying more attention to the people in the Institute. His grandmother is dead, and despite the paperwork Gertrude filed, she is no replacement. He dislikes Michael, but there are other people who work around the building, and he starts talking to them more. There’s Regina Argenti who works in Artefact Storage (the one room in the building that he is not allowed to enter) and who is always ready to entertain Jon with wild stories from her time as a student. There’s the head of the Institute, James Wright, with his somewhat irritating forgetfulness-- Michael worriedly explains to Jon that James hasn’t been the same since his accident five or six years ago, but that he does his job. There’s Caspian Kerr, the head librarian, who loves books just as much as Jon does, and will always set aside ones he thinks Jon would like. </p>
<p>    And there’s Elias the filing clerk. </p>
<p>    Of all the employees of the Magnus Institute, Jon likes Elias the least. No matter what it is he tries to do, Elias is always there, giving him empty smiles and talking to him like he’s four years old. He isn’t even anyone important, just some clerk who takes care of rotational schedules and the accounts. He’s always in James’s office whenever Jon goes to steal some of the chocolate he knows is kept in the cabinet, and he’s never outright mean, but something about him doesn’t sit right. Jon makes faces at him whenever Elias turns away, and somehow it always feels as though Elias knows. </p>
<p>    He’s twelve when he meets Gerry. Gertrude has mentioned Mary Keay on and off through the years, and she starts coming to visit more and more frequently. Occasionally she brings along her moody, black-clad son. He’s roughly Jon’s age, which is the reason that for five months Jon avoids him like the plague anytime he infests the library with his presence. </p>
<p>    But one day the boy notices Jon glaring at him from across the computer lab. He pulls his shiny metallic headphones off of his chin-length neon green hair, and gives Jon a surprisingly bright smile and a little wave. Jon looks away quickly and turns back to the webpage he’s reading on medieval architecture. </p>
<p>    It’s too late. He hears the thunk of combat boots on the floor next to him, and looks up into a friendly face with an absurd amount of vaguely goth clip-on jewelry attached to it. </p>
<p>    “Hey,” says the boy, “I’m Gerard Keay. What’s your name?”</p>
<p>    “Jonathan,” he says, grudgingly. </p>
<p>    “Ah, that’s a cooler name than mine. What are you doing here?” </p>
<p>    “I live here.”</p>
<p>    “What, in the library?”</p>
<p>    “No,” says Jon, “in the Institute. I’m… Gertrude is kind of like my aunt, or something.”</p>
<p>    “Oh.” Gerard grimaces. “That must suck.”</p>
<p>    “Why?”</p>
<p>    “Well, she’s best friends with my mum, and my mum is hardly a walk in the park. Say, what are you doing right now?”</p>
<p>    “I was trying,” says Jon, “to read this article.”</p>
<p>    Gerard leans over Jon’s shoulder to glance at the computer screen. “Okay, that looks pretty cool,” he says, “but I know a doughnut place over in Battersea, and I’m really happy to find someone else my age in this place. Do you want to come?”</p>
<p>    “I don’t have any money,” says Jon doubtfully. </p>
<p>    “That’s okay. Mum didn’t notice I took her purse.”</p>
<p>    “Aren’t you going to get in trouble?”</p>
<p>    “I get in trouble whatever I do,” Gerry says gloomily. </p>
<p>    “Alright.”</p>
<p>    Jon darts downstairs to his small cot in the spare storage cabinet and grabs his jacket, then meets Gerard on the front steps of the Institute. It’s not often that he goes outside, and everything seems very bright. Gerry sets off towards the bridge across the Thames, and Jon follows him in silence, trying to observe him without being noticed. It’s January, and he isn’t even wearing a coat, just a black T-shirt with a heart logo on it. </p>
<p>    “What’s that?” he asks eventually, gesturing to the symbol. </p>
<p>    “Hmm? Oh!” Gerard grins at him. “It’s one of my favourite bands, Smashing Pumpkins. I really like music. What about you?”</p>
<p>    “I don’t really listen to music much.”</p>
<p>    “Well, you should! I can always recommend bands to you if you like. Smashing Pumpkins is terrific; I snuck into one of their concerts last year. I don’t like them as much as Metallica though. I don’t think I’ll ever like anything as much as Metallica.”</p>
<p>    “Yeah?”</p>
<p>    “Yeah. Mum hates Metallica. That’s why she got me these headphones.” He taps the giant silver headphones slung around his neck. “Gave them to me for my twelfth birthday. She was a few days off, but to be honest I was actually really happy. I like them a lot.”</p>
<p>    “Your mother sounds kind of awful.”</p>
<p>    Gerard nods “She is. She’s really nasty. Hey, do you want to be my friend?”</p>
<p>    They’re across the bridge, now, walking past the power station. Jon finds himself smiling, very rustily. “Sure,” he says. “Call me Jon.”</p>
<p>    Gerard brightens up. “And you can call me Gerry! I’ve always wanted my friends to call me Gerry.”</p>
<p>    They get doughnuts, and Gerry delivers an enthusiastic forty-minute monologue on the history of Metallica which Jon actually finds quite interesting. It’s nearly night by the time they make their way back to Chelsea and the Institute. </p>
<p>    “Mum is probably still with Gertrude,” says Gerry. “I should go find her.”</p>
<p>    Jon nods. “Alright,” he says. “But before you go, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”</p>
<p>    “Uh-huh?”</p>
<p>    “This might be an odd question,” says Jon carefully, “but have you heard of a man named Jurgen Leitner?”</p>
<p>    “Oh, yes.” Gerry makes a face. “I <em>hate </em>Jurgen Leitner.”</p>
<p>    Jon smiles.</p>
<p>    Gerry comes over practically every week, and then every other day. Jon begins to leave the Institute more as well, travelling all across London with Gerry. Sometimes it’s to sneak into one of Gerry’s traumatically loud rock concerts, through which Jon suffers for the sake of friendship. Sometimes Jon drags him to museums; small, hole-in-the-wall places he reads about online. And occasionally he helps Gerry hunt books. </p>
<p>    By the time he turns thirteen Jon is increasingly aware that the world is a lot more complex than he thought it was. There are forces beyond the natural. He knows this much from the statements that he has started to understand are far more than fiction; more real, in fact, than practically anything else in his world. Gerry knows more about it than him, and after the first months of their friendship he explains to Jon in a hushed voice about the Eye, about Robert Smirke, and about everything his mother does with the Leitners. None of it takes Jon by surprise, exactly. It all feels right, like the rational conclusion of everything he’s read over the last four years. </p>
<p>    He starts to play a game. It’s a simple game, and it’s called Who Knows. </p>
<p>    Who Knows:</p>
<p>    <em>Gertrude </em></p>
<p>
  <em>    Michael </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>    Mary Keay</em>
</p>
<p>He thinks others might suspect, or at least might believe in the supernatural. It’s hard to work in Artefacts, for example, without realizing that something is off. But it’s not until James Wright dies that he adds a new name to his list. </p>
<p>    Jon attends the funeral, for reasons he’s not entirely certain of. He wasn’t close with the old man. Gerry isn’t invited, so it’s a miserable affair. He barely knows anyone there, and after the ceremony he stands awkwardly by the refreshments table prodding half-heartedly at a salad. </p>
<p>    He spies Elias several feet away, talking to another man in a crisp black suit. There’s something odd about him. What catches Jon’s attention first is the hat. It’s navy blue and doesn’t match his jacket at all. It almost looks like a fisherman’s cap. It’s certainly not the right thing to wear to a formal funeral. The second thing he notices is the accent. It’s flat, vaguely northwestern, but isn’t like anything he’s heard before. The third thing he notices is the content of the conversation. </p>
<p>    “Really, Elias,” says the man, “I think it’s long past overdue. Nathaniel has been getting irritated with the Institute in the last couple of years.”</p>
<p>    Elias scoffs. “Nathaniel can mind his own business. Besides, I’ve heard he has concerns closer to home.”</p>
<p>    “Hey, don’t insult my family. Only I get to do that,” says the man goodnaturedly. “We’re sorting it out. I suggested they give him to me. Nothing to rearrange your priorities like six months at sea with no one else your age. But no, Nathaniel knows best, boarding school it is.”</p>
<p>    “Peter, I think anyone at sea with you for six months would throw themselves over the side.”</p>
<p>    The man ostensibly named Peter spreads his hands, his martini glass tipping precariously. “Who says that isn’t the plan?”</p>
<p>    “You’d kill your own nephew?” Elias asks. He sounds amused. </p>
<p>    “What, envious? You’ve complained to me enough about Gertrude’s bratty little spider.”</p>
<p>    “Oh, you know me,” says Elias, and suddenly his eyes find Jon’s. He smiles. “I don’t like to get my hands dirty.”</p>
<p>    Jon stares back at him. He isn’t entirely sure what he’s just overheard, but he’s sure it’s nothing good. <em>Little spider</em>, he thinks. <em>That’s me. I’m caught in the Web. </em></p>
<p>    The man called Peter turns and gives Jon a once-over. “Is this him?” </p>
<p>    “Yes,” says Elias. </p>
<p>    “Why are you both staring at me?” asks Jon. </p>
<p>    “Hello, Jon,” Elias says. “Do you know Peter Lukas? He has a nephew about your age, as it turns out.”</p>
<p>    “Unfortunately,” adds Peter Lukas. “Sorry, ignore me.”</p>
<p>    “Should be easy,” says Elias under his breath. He neatly dodges the elbow Lukas sends his way. “Jon, I’ll see you tomorrow for your personnel review.”</p>
<p>    Jon squints at him. “My what?”</p>
<p>    “You know,” Elias says, “the interview where I decide if I want to keep you on as an employee.”</p>
<p>    There are so many things wrong with that sentence that Jon can’t decide which one to respond to. Instead he shoves another bite of soggy salad into his mouth, glares at Elias, and runs out of the church. </p>
<p>    When he wakes up the next day and makes his way to the library, there are more people milling around then normal. He finds Caspian in his office. “What’s going on?”</p>
<p>    “As it turns out,” says Caspian drily, “our new Institute Director is Elias Bouchard from the Accounts department.”</p>
<p>    Jon nods. “Yes,” he says, “obviously. But why is everyone in the library?”</p>
<p>    “Because Carrie has set up a betting pool on how long he’ll last before the patrons force him out.”</p>
<p>    “Why do they think that will happen?”</p>
<p>    “To be blunt, Jonathan, have you <em>met </em>Elias? He’s a useless twat, and I don’t say that lightly.”</p>
<p>    “He’s a useless twat who’s best friends with the Lukases.”</p>
<p>    “What?” </p>
<p>    “Nothing,” says Jon, and storms out in a grumble. He barely knows where he’s going, but before long he’s found himself in front of the familiar office door. They’ve already changed the placard on it.</p>
<p>    “Come in,” Elias says from inside. </p>
<p>    Jon does. “I didn’t knock.”</p>
<p>    “No,” says Elias, “you didn’t.”</p>
<p>    The office looks exactly the same as it did before James died, although the chocolate on the shelf has been replaced with sherbets. Jon hates sherbets. </p>
<p>    “Hello, Jon,” says Elias. “Feel free to take a seat.”</p>
<p>    Jon doesn’t. “You killed James Wright.”</p>
<p>    “I did not.” Elias has the audacity to look offended. “He died of completely natural causes.”</p>
<p>    “Well, you’re not human, at any rate.” Jon doesn’t know where the thought comes from. He just says it, and when Elias smiles and leans forward across the desk he knows he’s right.</p>
<p>    “Not particularly,” Elias says. “What are you going to do about it?”</p>
<p>    “Nothing,” says Jon, “on one condition.”</p>
<p>    “And what’s that?”</p>
<p>    “I want in with the Eye. I heard what you said to Peter Lukas yesterday. I might be young but I’m not an idiot. I don’t want to wind up in the Web.”</p>
<p>    Elias straightens up. “That’s interesting,” he says. “I didn’t expect that.”</p>
<p>    “Alright. As long as we’re clear.” Jon nods at him tersely, walks out of the office, and closes the door behind him. Then he leans against the wall and closes his eyes. Something feels different. For the first time, it hits him that he no longer lives in the world that most people do. </p>
<p>    He goes to call up Gerry. </p>
<p>    There are things he begins to see. He has an uncanny ability to guess what people are thinking, and sometimes hears conversations across the library as though he was right next to them. Once he gets halfway through a statement before realizing that although he’s been reading aloud in English, it’s written in Italian. </p>
<p>    He does not speak Italian.</p>
<p>    It’s that year that he gets his first invite to the annual Magnus Institute Gala, a splendid reception for the patrons and the key staff. Elias gives it to him in person, with a smug smile. “I do hope you come,” he says. “It’s important you know your friends from your enemies.”</p>
<p>    Jon takes that to mean that Elias can’t wait to watch him have an absolutely miserable time standing alone in a room filled with rich snobs twice his age, but he doesn’t want to admit weakness. The invite is addressed to “Mr. Jonathan Sims and his plus one,” so Jon brings Gerry along. </p>
<p>    The first hour of the event is exactly what Jon expected: he and Gerry lurk next to the punch bowl and watch adults of varying ages chat and dance to slow jazz music. It’s dreadful, and mildly amusing. Gerry has actually tidied up for the evening. His hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and is died a muted purple. He’s only got on one pair of earrings, and has even put on a suit. It’s all black, including his shirt, but Jon acknowledges that some concessions must be made. 
    “This music is awful,” remarks Gerry every five minutes. He drops a canapé into the punch bowl and Jon pretends not to notice. </p>
<p>    They take to people watching. On the far side of the room there’s a cluster of people around an old man in a baby-blue suit that Jon suspects is Simon Fairchild. They’re listening to him tell some story about skydiving, which sounds remarkably tame considering the statements Jon has read about him. </p>
<p>    Bored, they turn to watching Elias for a bit. He flits around the room like a gadfly, buzzing between sponsors and staff and smiling far too much. Every so often he finds his way to Peter Lukas, who’s standing by himself at the side of the room with a large flask and talking to no one.</p>
<p>    “Who’s that guy that Elias keeps chatting with?” Gerry asks. </p>
<p>    “Peter Lukas,” says Jon gloomily. “Remember I told you about that weird conversation I overheard at the funeral?” </p>
<p>    “He looks really broody,” says Gerry. “I suppose I can respect his commitment to the aesthetic of the Lonely.”</p>
<p>    “He talked about killing his own nephew, Gerry.”</p>
<p>    “Yeah, yeah, okay, that is what might be generally regarded as an uncool move. But I can appreciate wearing that hat to this fancy a party.”</p>
<p>    They look for Gertrude. She isn’t there, but Michael is. He stands with a group of Institute staff making somewhat awed smalltalk, and he won’t stop wringing his hands. </p>
<p>    It takes some time before they notice the boy. Jon sees him first: he’s standing at the opposite side of the table, dressed in a brown suit several sizes too large for him, and he looks miserable. Jon nudges Gerry and points. </p>
<p>    “Aw,” Gerry says, “we should go introduce ourselves to him. He looks really sad.”</p>
<p>    “No way. I’m not meeting more strangers than I have to.”</p>
<p>    “You need more friends, Jon.”</p>
<p>    “I’ve got you!”</p>
<p>    “Yeah, yeah, come on. We’re going to go be nice.” He grabs Jon by the wrist and drags him across the room to the boy, who looks up with an emotion in his eyes that looks very much like fear. “Hey! I’m Gerard, and this is Jon, what’s your name?”</p>
<p>    “Evan,” the boy says, and smiles. He’s got a nice smile, open and frank. His accent is soft but familiar. “I saw you guys a while ago but I wasn’t sure you’d want to talk to me.”</p>
<p>    “We didn’t,” says Jon. </p>
<p>    Gerry elbows him. “Of course we did. There’s no one else our age in this crowd, at any rate. Don’t listen to Jon, he’s a creep.”</p>
<p>    “Am not.”</p>
<p>    “Are too. You spent an hour just staring at everyone in this room.”</p>
<p>    “I’m trying to figure out what Elias is up to!”</p>
<p>    “Elias Bouchard?” asks Evan. “I met him. He’s friends with my uncle. He seemed nice.”</p>
<p>    “Oh boy,” says Gerry. </p>
<p>    “What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>    Jon glares. “Elias Bouchard is a total bastard.”</p>
<p>    “Not that, you idiot,” says Gerry. “Uncle. Uncle friends with Elias. Uncle evil.”</p>
<p>    “Uncle not evil,” says Evan, frowning. “Uncle one of nicest family members in not nice family.”    </p>
<p>    “Oh,” says Jon, with dawning horror-tinged realization. “Uncle evil. You’re Evan Lukas.”</p>
<p>    “Yes?” Evan says helplessly. “What are you talking about?”</p>
<p>    “Just, uh, don’t worry about it too much.” Gerry grins. “Hey, let’s dance. This music is trash, but I suppose it’ll do.”</p>
<p>    As it turns out Evan does not know how to do any kind of dance except the waltz, which is how Jon spends a brutally embarrassing four minutes being led across the floor by Evan Lukas, as Gerry looks on in delight. Then Gerry cuts in and tries to teach them both something that he probably thinks is the tango, but is most assuredly not. Once Jon glances up to see Peter Lukas watching them from his wall. He smiles at Jon. It’s as empty as his eyes. </p>
<p>    They try to get Evan’s phone number, but there are no phones in his house or the fancy boarding school he goes to outside Cambridge. Instead he scribbles his address on a napkin, and begs them to write to him. </p>
<p>    “This has been a great night,” he says, and he looks near tears. “Thank you so much. I’ve had so much fun. Jon, Gerard.”</p>
<p>    “Gerry.”</p>
<p>    Evan Lukas looks at him, and now he does start crying. “Gerry,” he sniffles, and then pulls them both into a hug that Jon immediately tries to escape, with no avail. </p>
<p>    “We’ll see you around, Evan,” says Gerry. </p>
<p>    “It’s so nice to see the young people connecting,” comes a familiar Manx voice from behind them. “Evan, are you ready to go?”</p>
<p>    “Yes, Uncle Peter.” Evan wipes his eyes on his sleeve and grins up at his uncle, who pats him on the shoulder. </p>
<p>    “Elias!” calls Peter Lukas, to the man standing several feet away. </p>
<p>    Elias turns from the woman he’s talking to and nods at the group. “Is the Mooreland delegation leaving so soon?”</p>
<p>    “We wouldn’t like to get too familiar,” says Peter Lukas jokingly. </p>
<p>    “Of course not.” Elias makes his way over. “Well, it’s been a delight as always, Peter. Lovely to meet your nephew, and I’m glad he got to know Jon and Gerard.” </p>
<p>Elias and Peter shake hands, and then Peter claps him on the back. “Well, I’ll see you at the next one,” he says, and with that he ushers Evan out of the building. </p>
<p>They write to Evan regularly. Or more accurately, Gerry writes to Evan and includes things that Jon wants to tell him. Once or twice the two of them even take the train up to Cambridge, and Evan sneaks out of his dorm. They don't tell him about what Jon overheard at the funeral-- Jon spends a while driving himself crazy trying to figure out if, in fact, Elias <em>wanted </em>him to overhear the whole conversation, and if so whether he wanted Jon to tell Evan or not to tell Evan. Eventually Gerry snaps and tells him to knock it off after an hour of increasingly derailed logic.  </p>
<p>“Look, it doesn’t matter,” he says. “Peter said that Evan was safe at boarding school, and Evan worships the living shit out of that man, so we’re not going to tell him. It’s going to work out for the best.”</p>
<p>And things do look up, for a while. As the year progresses the three of them help Gerry on his increasingly rebellious quests for artefacts and books. Evan has a knack for surreptition, and Gerry has his encyclopedic knowledge of paranormal trivia, and Jon… </p>
<p>“It doesn’t bother me,” Gerry tells him every time. “Really, it doesn’t.”</p>
<p>“I think it’s pretty cool,” says Evan. “I’d much prefer to have you in my head than be alone.”</p>
<p>He never hurts anyone, of course. But when they’re in a tight corner, or need access to a locked room, then the door in his mind is so inviting and so <em>easy. </em>At first it’s just like letting a drop of water squeeze through, but by the time he turns fifteen it’s more that he’s constantly wading through a pool, and all he has to do to see what’s under the water is put his head under and open his eyes. Statements are one thing, but Knowing is another thing entirely.</p>
<p>He tries it with Elias, once, just to see what happens. All he sees inside the man’s head is eyes, eyes from more directions than should exist in three dimensions. </p>
<p>Elias smiles. </p>
<p>Jon glares. </p>
<p>“You’ve made a lot of progress, Jon. I’m very impressed. You’ll make a wonderful Archivist soon.”</p>
<p>Jon thanks him for the compliment as passive aggressively as he can, and walks out of the office.</p>
<p>    Gerry has a busy year. He and Jon talk regularly, but once he disappears for an entire month and when he finally reappears he only says he’s been up north on a particularly tricky book hunt. He won’t explain anything else, but he seems tired. </p>
<p>    He does show Jon the tattoos: little black eyes, all along his knuckles and on all his visible joints. </p>
<p>    “How many of these did you get?” Jon asks in disbelief. </p>
<p>    “So many,” gripes Gerry. “Mum didn’t want me to, but I found an old Smirke letter that referenced it. I think it should help me avoid the attention of any of the other Entities.” He runs one hand through his hair-- now crimson red-- and shoots Jon a finger gun. “It’s Beholding all the way, baby.”</p>
<p>    “Gerry, you’re fifteen. Where on earth did you get these?”</p>
<p>    “I did them myself, actually.” Gerry looks quite proud. “I’ve been drawing a lot recently, and I think I’m getting pretty good. Hey, do you want to see my sketchbook?”</p>
<p>    They have a sleepover that night in Jon’s storage closet, and stay up far too late watching <em>Buffy the Vampire Slayer. </em></p>
<p>    “There’s too much kissing in this,” Jon complains. “Pass me the chocolate.”</p>
<p>    “Oh, come on,” says Gerry. “Like you don’t enjoy watching Faith LeHane kiss people.”</p>
<p>    “I don’t enjoy watching anyone kiss people! It’s just awkward!”</p>
<p>    “Okay,” Gerry says, “but Faith LeHane.” He reaches over and grabs a handful out of the popcorn bag on Jon’s lap.</p>
<p>    Jon groans. He doesn’t quite have the energy to convince Gerry that he does not, in fact, like watching anyone kiss anyone else, even Faith LeHane. “Have you ever kissed a girl?” he asks. </p>
<p>    “Uh,” Gerry says, “no.”</p>
<p>    “Then you’re one to talk.”</p>
<p>    They watch another episode of <em>Buffy</em>, and eventually pass out. </p>
<p>While relations between Jon and Elias are tense but civil, Gertrude has become increasingly icy towards him. One day he finally corners her and asks what’s going on. </p>
<p>    “Don’t you try that with me, young man,” she says. “That may work on poor civilians you practice your terror on, but it’s not going to work on me. Don’t think I don’t have my eye on you.”</p>
<p>    “What for?” he Asks, because it’s not entirely voluntary now. </p>
<p>    “I said stop.” She squints at him. “Perhaps you’ve been spending too much time around Mary’s boy. Strange child. Yes, I think you would do best in getting away from him for a while.”</p>
<p>    “You’re not my mum,” says Jon, before he can stop himself. </p>
<p>    “No,” says Gertrude, “and thank the Lord for that. You’ll be accompanying me on my next trip, I think.”</p>
<p>    “What? Why? How long?” </p>
<p>    “If you do that again,” says Gertrude, “I shall change the lock on the door to the Archives. I know you don’t eat much anymore. Let’s see how you feel after a week with no statements.”</p>
<p>    Jon’s blood runs cold, for more reasons than one. “I’ll manage.”</p>
<p>    “Oh, I’m sure you would. But I’d be interested to see if you’re still Jonathan Sims once you start sucking out people’s minds for sustenance.”</p>
<p>    Strangely, Jon feels like crying. “That’s… I wouldn’t do that.”</p>
<p>    “No.” Gertrude softens slightly. “Perhaps you’re stronger than I give you credit for. But I meant what I said about my next trip. It’s past time you learn what it is I actually do.”</p>
<p>    She smiles. </p>
<p>    Jon doesn’t smile back. </p>
<p>    “I can’t believe you’re leaving,” Gerry says for the fourth time that day. </p>
<p>    They’re eating lunch under a bridge somewhere in West Country, on a quest for a rare edition of Smirke’s diary. “Will you stop talking about it?” Jon says. “It’s not like it’s forever. You’ve been gone for ages, besides.”</p>
<p>    “Uh, I’ve been gone for, maximum, a month,” he scoffs. “Gertrude’s talking four times that. And I can’t even write to you if you’re moving around and all.”</p>
<p>    “Yes,” says Jon, “it does sound a bit lonely.”</p>
<p>    Gerry bursts out laughing. “Didn’t you say Gertrude is friends with the Lukases?” </p>
<p>    “It sounds odd now you mention it, but yes, she does mention Conrad Lukas occasionally. Anyway, can we drop it? I don’t want to talk right now.”</p>
<p>    “Okay,” says Gerry, but even though he’s finished his sandwich he doesn’t get up. </p>
<p>    Jon stares at him. </p>
<p>    “Um,” he says, “I’ve got something to tell you.”</p>
<p>    He’s not looking at Jon, choosing instead to fiddle with one of his dumb-looking skull rings. Jon makes a conscious effort not to just pluck whatever it is Gerry wants to say out of his mind. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>    Gerry sighs, and rubs his hands together. “You asked me a few weeks ago if I’d ever kissed a girl.”</p>
<p>    “Yeah?”</p>
<p>    “Well, I didn’t lie, exactly. I haven’t kissed a girl. But I have kissed a boy.” </p>
<p>    Jon stares. “You’re <em>gay</em>?” It comes out as more accusatory than he means it.</p>
<p>    “Not… exactly,” says Gerry. He looks mortified. “I’m bisexual, I think.”</p>
<p>    “Oh.” Jon mulls it over for a moment. “What’s it like, then, having a crush on a boy?”</p>
<p>    That seems to register as acceptance, because Gerry relaxes shakily. “Well, it’s just like having a crush on a girl. You know.”</p>
<p>    “No,” says Jon, “I don’t.”</p>
<p>    “What, you’ve never had a crush?”</p>
<p>    Jon makes a face and shakes his head slowly. </p>
<p>    “Don’t worry,” says Gerry, “it’ll happen eventually, I’m sure.”</p>
<p>    “Yeah,” Jon says, “of course.”</p>
<p>    They find the book soon after that, and don’t really get the chance to say goodbye. It’s not that they part on a bad note, exactly, but something about the exchange leaves Jon feeling sour and tense. He starts thinking about crushes a lot. He even asks Michael-- <em>Michael, </em>of all people-- what exactly constitutes a crush. </p>
<p>    “Oh, you know,” Michael says, in his usual vacuous way, “you want to be around them all the time, and you miss them when they’re gone, and you want to kiss them, and uh, things like that, ha ha ha.”</p>
<p>    Jon does not want to kiss anybody, but the rest of the description does sound familiar. It starts sounding even more familiar when he leaves for Turkey with Gertrude, and the absence of Gerry rings harsh. He thinks about missing Gerry, about that deep gap in his soul where his best friend should be, and then he tries to imagine kissing him. It doesn’t really evoke anything in him. </p>
<p>    If he <em>weren’t </em>in love with his best friend, it would feel wrong to think about these things, wouldn’t it? But something in the description feels wrong, like an ill-fitting jacket.</p>
<p>    He spends an hour standing in customs at the Istanbul Atatürk Airport, listening half-heartedly to the chatter around him, and thinking for the first time in his life about his future. He’s been at the Institute for almost half his life, and while he’s always vaguely assumed he’ll go to uni, he has no plans for where or what to study. </p>
<p>    Gerry will not go to uni, he’s sure. He’s too streetwise, too working class, too proud in a rebellious kind of way. He knows everything he needs to know about the world already. Which raises the question-- what is it that Jon needs to learn? What does he want to do? He knows everything he cares to just by asking. </p>
<p>    With a start, he realizes that he’s always assumed he will be the Archivist after Gertrude. This isn’t the middle ages; it’s not a hereditary position and hypothetically it should go to Michael. But he can’t imagine Michael reading statements in that breathy, irritating way of his. He can’t imagine Michael asking <em>questions. </em></p>
<p>    “What are you frowning about, Jon?”</p>
<p>    He looks over at Gertrude. Her face is older than it was when he met her. More worn, and harder. She looks, in the unnatural and tired light of the airport, like a killer. The thought strikes him and glances off his mind, bouncing around for a bit uncomfortably. He’s not sure where it came from.</p>
<p>    “Have you ever killed anyone, Gertrude?” he asks, very careful not to Compel her. </p>
<p>    She stares at him for a long moment. “I’ve done everything that was necessary.” </p>
<p>    <em>So that’s a yes. </em>Jon wonders, idly, if he’s going to return from this trip. He decides to ask. “Am I going to come back from this trip?”</p>
<p>    “Of course,” says Gertrude briskly, “as long as you don’t do anything monumentally stupid.”</p>
<p>    “Gertrude?”</p>
<p>    “Yes?”</p>
<p>    “What does having a crush feel like?”</p>
<p>    “Good Lord, Jon,” says Gertrude, and hands her well-thumbed passport to the man behind the customs window. “<em>Teşekkür ederim. </em>That’s a ridiculous question, Jon. I don’t have time for you to be going through this.”</p>
<p>    “Have you ever had a crush, Gertrude?”</p>
<p>    “Of course I have.” She smiles, woodenly, at the customs man. </p>
<p>    “You are from Great Britain?” he asks, in lightly-accented English.</p>
<p>    “Yes. This is my grandson, Jonathan. Give the man your passport, Jonathan.”</p>
<p>    The man looks at Gertrude, then down to Jon, then back up at Gertrude. “Your grandson?”</p>
<p>    “He’s adopted.”</p>
<p>    “Oh. How old are you?”</p>
<p>    “Fifteen,” says Jon, sullenly. </p>
<p>    “Oh, yes,” the man chuckles. “He is fifteen. Have a good day, ma’am.” He stamps their passports, and they bustle out onto the chaotic streets of Istanbul. </p>
<p>    It hits Jon suddenly that this is an old city. London is an old city, of course: there’s history in the cracks, caught up in years of blood and grime and rain water. Londinium, the Roman outpost against the cold and the wind. There have been chiefs and kings and emperors running through it. But it is nothing compared to Istanbul. </p>
<p>    For a second, as they stand there blinking in the sunlight, the years peel away and he sees the cars and asphalt disappear, replaced by horse-drawn carriages and cobblestones. The skyline is different: lower, only the Galata Tower and the minarets of mosques stabbing up into the sky. Then the carriages fade into grey, the skyline drops once more, and he can smell gunpowder. Nearby, stone crumbles. Atop the tallest building he can see stands a cross. Then everything falls around him, the cobbles melt into dirt, and he is no longer inside the city. It is in front of him, and it is on fire. The tallest church is smoldering, but in it he can see the skeleton of a mosque that stands high one and a half millennia later. </p>
<p>    A car horn blares loudly over the beginning notes of the muezzin, and Jon opens his eyes to Gertrude prodding him on the shoulder. “Stop it,” she says, but she sounds-- for once-- mildly amused. Looking around at the bustling street in front of her, she smiles slightly. “I do like this city. They have very good cherries.”</p>
<p>They stop very briefly at the hotel to drop off their bags, and then set off directly on what Gertrude describes as "chores." </p>
<p>"What time is it?" Jon asks, after they've been walking through narrow cobbled alleyways for longer than is interesting. </p>
<p>Gertrude doesn't look at him. "Don't you have a watch?" </p>
<p>"Yes," says Jon, "but it's still on London time."</p>
<p>"Ah. Well, change it. It's 14:47 at the moment." </p>
<p>Jon dutifully sets his watch to 14:27, and then looks up at her again. He feels strangely hungry. "Are we going to eat lunch?"</p>
<p>"No," says Gertrude. "You should have brought something for the plane." </p>
<p>"Why can't we eat lunch?"</p>
<p>"Because we have work to do."</p>
<p>"What work?"</p>
<p>"Research," she says frostily, eyeing him, and then her face softens slightly. "Alright. We'll make one purchase and then we'll stop for lunch."</p>
<p>The purchase in question takes place at a small shop plainly labeled ‘Arslan'ın’ in peeling yellow paint. It’s tucked away in a back alley so narrow only handy use of poles keeps the apartment buildings on either side from colliding.</p>
<p>“What’s this place?”</p>
<p>Gertrude gives him a long look. “A candy store,” she says finally, and brushes in imperiously. </p>
<p>She gives a perfunctory ‘merhaba’ to the man behind the counter-- tall, younger than Jon would have expected, and with the kind of face that he feels he should find attractive-- and then they settle comfortably into a rhythm of heavily accented but functional French on both sides. He doesn’t listen. He wanders around the tiny shop, looking at the black and white photographs on the walls, peering out the grimy window at the alleyway outside. There’s not much to look at. The metaphorical water is lapping insistently at his ankles, and finally, since Gertrude is still rambling on with the man, he closes his eyes and opens his Eyes. </p>
<p>
  <em>“I think I’ll need quite a bit,” Gertrude is saying. It doesn’t sound like English, but he understands it as English nonetheless.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“It’ll cost,” says Arslan. Jon Knows his name is Arslan know. Curious, he opens more eyes under the water.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I know it will cost,” Gertrude snaps. She’s antsy. There are a lot of things floating at the surface of her mind-- whether she’ll have enough money to finance this, whether Jon will let her do what she needs to do without fuss, whether the new Head of the Institute will pull her funding for research trips.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Of course, madame,” says Arslan. “But I will need all the payment up front. I’m sure you understand.” In contrast to Gertrude, Ender Arslan is having a great day. He’s got a date with Zeynep Şanlı this evening, and they’re going rollerblading after eating pizza. Ender Arslan likes pizza a lot, and he likes Zeynep too. Especially the way she blushes when she laughs, and the way her smile--</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Jon doesn’t care about Ender Arslan and his pizza date with Zeynep. He fixes his thoughts on Gertrude and opens all his eyes. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>What he thinks of as a shallow pool of water at his ankles suddenly rushes up, and he’s pulled under, something terrible and powerful dragging him further and further down. He can see everything now, all Gertrude’s deepest fears. First and foremost, she’s scared of the Cult of the Lightless Flame, and the progeny they’re raising. Agnes Montague. The name bears a special emphasis in Gertrude’s mind, as though a million strands of thoughts are woven around those two words. Jon’s own mind flounders in the myriad strands, the complexity of it, and he backtracks hurriedly, letting his gaze be guided towards his own name, where it sits in a softer, more clouded corner of Gertrude’s mind. He realizes all of a sudden that Gertrude cares deeply for him, which makes the thoughts milling around at his feet all the more horrifying when he sees them. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They’re plans, all of them. Dozens of plans for eventualities in which Gertrude abandons him, or sacrifices him, or-- worst of all-- kills him to prevent him from hurting people. He’s lost, drowning in the pool of what she might do to him when--</em>
</p>
<p>Something cracks sharply across his cheek and all of his eyes blink, the countless images he sees crackling out of existence. Then he focuses and, from hundreds of angles, sees Gertrude standing in front of him with her hand up. With an immense effort, he closes all of his eyes but the two on his head. His heart pounds. </p>
<p>    He can see that Gertrude knows he’s returned to himself, and watches a brief moment of indecision flash across her face before she lowers her hand. “Jon,” she says, in a voice which sounds far less angry than he would have expected. “This is going to be a very serious problem.”</p>
<p>    Behind her, Ender Arslan stares in abject confusion. “Șe…” he says, raising a finger, a look of concerned indignance on his face, “Madame, s’il vous plaît, ne frappez pas votre petit-fils. On peut résoudre tout ça sans violence…”</p>
<p>    The words float over Jon, and he concentrates very hard on not understanding them. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, gazing up at Gertrude, “I didn’t-- I didn’t really mean to.”</p>
<p>    “We’ll talk about this later.” She turns to the bemused shop owner and smiles at him. “Je reviendrai demain matin, sans le garçon. Bonne journée.” And then, grasping Jon firmly by the arm, she tugs him out of the store. </p>
<p>    They walk in silence through the crumbling, narrow alleyways, until they emerge on a larger thoroughfare and Gertrude plunks him down on a chair that he barely sees until he’s sitting in it. He’s at a cafe. They serve food. He smells food. </p>
<p>    “Food,” says Gertrude.</p>
<p>    He’s not hungry anymore.</p>
<p>    Her eyes narrow. “That’s what I thought. Right, Jon, I’m going to be quite upfront with you. This is unacceptable.”</p>
<p>    “You’re the one who started feeding me statements when I was ten,” he mutters under his breath.</p>
<p>    “I’m sorry, Jon, what did you say?” </p>
<p>    He ducks his head, and even as his mind says <em>no </em>he feels his lips moving. "I mean, that's the truth, isn't it? You've been grooming me as some sort of-- some sort of sacrifice. That's why you adopted me in the first place."</p>
<p>    Gertrude is silent for a long moment, and he doesn't dare look up at her. Staring blankly at the checkered tablecloth, he waits.</p>
<p>    "I make decisions," she says eventually, "that I don't always like. But I make them because someone has to. I didn't want to be the Archivist, but here I am. There are more important things than my life and there are certainly more important things than yours. As painful as that might be for me to know."</p>
<p>    "Are you-- do you love me?"</p>
<p>    "Oh, Jon," she says, turning her head towards him sadly, "of course I love you. But it won't stop me using you if I have to, I'm afraid."</p>
<p>    "Like a lamb to the slaughter," Jon whispers. </p>
<p>    "Don't be melodramatic. We all have a job."</p>
<p>    "And yours is--" Jon mentally rifles through the barrage of information he received back in the shop-- "stopping the apocalypse?"</p>
<p>    "Yes," she says, "over and over and over again. Do you hold your life higher than that?"</p>
<p>    "Why me?"</p>
<p>    "Oh, it's simple enough. You aren't special. We received a statement from some friend of James Wright's, who worked at your school. She said the short stories you were writing were… odd. Put her under strange compulsions. And she kept finding spiders in her house."</p>
<p>    Jon frowns. "Short stories?"</p>
<p>    "Yes. About something called Mr. Spider, and your near-encounter with it." She looks at him over her spectacles, her eyes serious and ever-so-slightly regretful. "I presume you had a formative run-in with a Leitner."</p>
<p>    "Yes," says Jon, "but I never wrote any short stories about it."</p>
<p>    They stare at each other. The tears building up behind his eyes flee, suddenly, and he feels very much like laughing. </p>
<p>    "Shit," says Gertrude, quietly, and with a bouquet of unplaceable inflections.</p>
<p>    "So who was the friend?" asks Jon, giddily. He is special, after all. (Somewhere deep inside most teenage boys believe they are special, but few receive such supernatural validation.)</p>
<p>    "I don't suppose it matters," she says. "Probably some poor soul James blackmailed into it."</p>
<p>    "What?"</p>
<p>    "Oh." She tilts her head. "You didn't come across that little piece of trivia when you were rooting around in my head? Poor old Mr. Wright...you never knew him before his little accident. He had quite a lot in common with, oh, someone like Elias."</p>
<p>    "How...how did Elias wind up in charge of the Institute?" Jon asks carefully. </p>
<p>    "You didn't hear? James had all the paperwork drawn up. All perfectly legal in that respect."</p>
<p>    "In that respect?"</p>
<p>    "Well," says Gertrude, the glimmer of a smile on her lips, "I think there's something slightly odd about the fact that those particular forms were signed <em>the month after Elias joined the Institute.</em>" </p>
<p>    The checkers on the tablecloth float in front of Jon's vision, blurry and warped. "What?"</p>
<p>    "Think about it. I'm sure it will come to you eventually."</p>
<p>    He thinks about it, and nothing comes to him. It doesn't make sense. </p>
<p>    "Oh, Jon," Gertrude murmurs, "there's still a lot you have to learn, and many people you have to meet. Perhaps Maxwell Rayner could open your eyes on this particular front."</p>
<p>    "You mean that body-hopping preacher from the People's Church?"</p>
<p>    "Mm," says Gertrude, and in a second seems to cast off whatever sentimental mood she had been occupying. "Alright, young man, enough of the heart to heart. If you ever, ever look into my mind again, I will do things to you that will make the spiders look like your best friends. Understood?"</p>
<p>    Face red, Jon mutters something under his breath that passes for assent, and Gertrude nods, then stands. </p>
<p>    "Right," she says, "we've got more errands to run. Come along."</p>
<p>    The day passes in a nondescript manner, and Jon spends it in a sullen haze, feeling increasingly feverish. They return to Ender Arslan's little shop sometime in the evening, and now Gertrude is brusque and perfunctory. When they enter the shop she shoots Jon a glance which indicates he will not be opening his mouth or any other more metaphysical orifices, thank you very much. </p>
<p>     Ender Arslan offers them tea. Gertrude refuses. She doesn't like tea.</p>
<p>    As they're making their way out of the narrow labyrinth of alleyways, the sun setting quickly, Jon raises his eyes to her. "Can I try Turkish tea before we go?"</p>
<p>    "You can try whatever you like as long as you ask for it like a human, without any compulsion."</p>
<p>    She says it with a thin layer of humour in her voice, but something about the words strikes sharply at Jon. He <em>is </em>a human, he thinks. What else would he be? </p>
<p>    He very distinctly does not let himself think of alternative words. Instead, as they plod along on errand after errand and the sky grows ever dimmer, he muses about Gerry. He supposes Gerry is good-looking, in a gangly pale teenage boy sense. Recently Gerry has been going through an unfortunate phase of dying his hair black, which isn't flattering at all. but Jon's sure he'll grow out of it soon. But beyond that-- he's weird, he makes Jon laugh, and he enjoys spending time with him. There aren't many people that Jon enjoys spending time with. </p>
<p>    "Gertrude?" he says, because after that morning's incident this is nothing to be ashamed of, "what's it like having a crush?"</p>
<p>    "Oh," she says, after a moment of checking prices on the array of screwdrivers hanging on the wall of the hardware store they're in, "you shouldn't be asking me."</p>
<p>    "Why not?"</p>
<p>    Gertrude squints at him over the rim of her prim glasses before answering. "I'm a lesbian," she says slowly. </p>
<p>    Jon nods. "Alright," he says, after a second. “And how did you know?”</p>
<p>    “How did I-- Good Lord, Jon, <em>this </em>is what’s on your mind right now?”</p>
<p>    A blush begins to creep across his traitorous cheeks. “I guess I-- I was talking about it with Gerry?”</p>
<p>    “Mary’s boy? The one you’re so fond of?” </p>
<p>    He shrugs. She stares at him. </p>
<p>    “So,” she says, “you want to know if you have a crush on Gerry?”</p>
<p>    “Uh-- yes.” </p>
<p>    “I don’t think you do,” says Gertrude pensively, her hand finally closing around the screwdriver she wants. “Or you’d be far more embarrassed talking about it.”</p>
<p>    “Hey, I am embarrassed!”</p>
<p>    “About what?”</p>
<p>    “About-- the whole topic of conversation.”</p>
<p>    “Hmm. Yes.”</p>
<p>    This doesn’t answer anything, but try as he might Jon can not pry anything more concrete from Gertrude. With a growing headache, he helps her to finish off the day’s errands, and then spends the evening stomping around his hotel room in a desultory and light-headed funk. As the hours tick on, he feels more and more cooped up, like a bird in a too-small cage. His head is spinning and he’s vaguely nauseous, and when he finally goes next door to ask Gertrude about it, she just shakes her head at him. </p>
<p>    “That’s a flu, Jon,” she says. “Probably because you haven’t had Istanbul water before. Nothing for it but to sleep it off. I’ll find you tylenol in the morning.”</p>
<p>    The door closes in front of him, clashing with a noise so sharp he can almost see it. It hurts his head. </p>
<p>    Miserable, he trudges down to the front desk and asks for a thermometer in accidentally perfect Turkish. The motherly-looking attendant happily rustles through a first-aid kit and finally produces one, then insists on taking his temperature herself.</p>
<p>    “Oh dear,” she tuts, and he understands her words perfectly, “you’re running quite high a fever. Here, love, take this.” She shoves a two-pack of advil into his sweaty palm. </p>
<p>    “Thanks,” he manages, before-- ignoring her protests-- he stumbles out of the front door of the hotel and into the street. </p>
<p>    Thunder crackles overhead, thick and rich. Jon wades through the heavy summer air, not entirely sure what he’s looking for, but just trying to get <em>out. </em>There’s no one on the streets, not at this time of night. No one but him and the door. </p>
<p>    It’s yellow. It stands straight and tall in the middle of the road. It has no house attached. </p>
<p>    In a world of too-bright colours and too-loud noises, it’s a breath of fresh air. </p>
<p>    <em>Oh, </em>he thinks<em>, the Spiral. </em></p>
<p>He knows he shouldn’t knock. </p>
<p>    He does anyway. </p>
<p>    And then the world        l   u    r     c      h       e        s        t    o a halt.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>:)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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